“Shh, Agacin. Be still. Be quiet. We don’t know if anyone is outside.”
Azarion. Ever present at her side. Relentless in his purpose. He was taking her farther and farther away from her village, farther and farther away from her ability to save Ilada and all the other women living in Beroe.
“I wish I were home,” she whispered.
A shift of long limbs and she felt his face press against her head. “We’re too far from your village to just set you on your horse and send you west. You’d be caught by the Nunari before you got half a league.”
She sniffled. “You’ll be the death of someone I love.”
He tensed behind her, and the steel in his deep voice returned. “I’ve been the death of many people others have loved, Agacin. I can carry the burden of one more.”
Gilene closed her eyes and willed back the tears, seeing once more the dream image of Ilada and her strangely tranquil features as the slavers led her away to burn as a Flower of Spring.
Whatever somnolence lingered when she had first opened her eyes burned to ash with the anger bubbling in her blood. She was in difficult straits now with only a slim hope based on a promise made by a man she didn’t trust. Alone on the steppe, and she’d be in worse danger from multiple sources. For now, her best hope in returning to Beroe lay with her captor.
Neither of them spoke as they both abandoned their bed, he to leave the barrow and scout the immediate vicinity, she to tend to her body’s demands. Her mare nickered a greeting as she passed, and Gilene paused long enough to stroke the necks of both horses. Fading sunlight pouring through the roof’s hole gilded their hindquarters, and nearby a puddle of rainwater had gathered in a shallow dip in the dirt floor, carved there by countless rainfalls.
Azarion had warned her they’d have rain during the day, and his prediction proved correct. She’d slept so deeply, she never heard the storm move in, though the air in the barrow smelled fresher than when they first entered.
She was laying out their meager food stores when Azarion returned. His handsome features were even grimmer than usual. “Campfires to the west of us. Likely a Nunari patrol or scouting party.”
The hollow feeling of hunger swirling in her belly gave way to the hollow feeling of fear. “Are you certain?”
He shook his head at her offer of an apple. “Certain enough not to linger. Eat and pack. I’ll lead the horses out to graze for a short time. I wanted to leave at twilight, but that camp smoke changes things. There’s another barrow town not far from here. We ride hard and hide there.”
She rose, appetite gone, despite his encouragement that she fill her belly. “What if they’re looking for us?” The food went back into the satchel, and she checked their sleeping spot to make sure nothing remained of their presence.
Azarion tossed the blankets over the horses’ backs, cinched saddles, and tied headstalls while he spoke. “They probably are. The rain has muddied our tracks or washed them away altogether, which is a boon for us, but the Nunari are good trackers.”
She followed him as he led the horses out of the barrow. Late- afternoon sunlight washed the steppe golden, and the wind was sharp and biting. Azarion pointed silently to the west, and she spotted smoke and the faint, far-off glow of fires.
“Are you sure we should wait for the horses to graze?” she asked, almost under her breath, fearful the wind might carry her words across the open landscape.
He tied the satchel she handed him to his saddle while the horses bent to graze on the silvery sagebrush growing amid the taller plumed grass. “We don’t have much of a choice. They’ll fight us the whole way if they’re too hungry. I can tell by the way you ride, you aren’t used to the saddle. A struggle between you and the mare? The mare will win. Let her eat. We can make up the time once we ride.”
To the east, she saw nothing but more of the open steppe with its occasional stand of trees. Whatever barrow town they rode for now, she couldn’t see it.
Azarion leaned over her shoulder and gestured to one of the larger clusters of woodland. “There, behind those trees, is the barrow town. Pray the Nunari don’t track us there.”
Gilene never prayed. “I thought you said most people avoid the gravesites.”
He gave another of those shrugs she found so annoying. “These are men with purpose and motivation. They’ll check the barrows.”
She shivered. “We’re targets in the open and prisoners in the barrows.”
He nodded. “Aye, but they won’t find us helpless.” He patted the two knives tied to his belt and raised the crossbow he held. “Unfortunate that I can’t kill them and take their horses. They would make fine gifts to the Savatar, who would be more willing to welcome us, but they’d slow us down.”
“You mean there’s a chance they won’t welcome a long-lost son with smiles and open arms?”
The hint of a smile flitted across his mouth, though his eyes remained somber as he watched the campfires. “You’ve a sharp tongue.”
Nerves and fear made her that way. “I’m surprised you haven’t yet cut it out.”
His expression turned severe. He gathered up the reins and coaxed the horses away from their feed with soft clicks of his teeth. “You’re safe with me, Agacin.”
She let him hoist her into the saddle, gritting her teeth at the ache in her protesting thighs. The reins felt heavy in her hands, her mare’s gait unforgiving as they galloped toward the next barrow town. And farther from home with every hoofbeat.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They traveled the night at a gallop, resting the horses with brief periods of steady trotting. The ground was a quagmire in spots, softened by the hard rain earlier in the day, and through these they picked their way at a slug’s pace as they searched for drier ground. Azarion kept Gilene in his sights at all times. He’d seen the panicked look in her eyes as they packed their meager supplies and prepared to leave. That look harbored more than fear of the Nunari. She’d awakened from the throes of a dream that had her twitching in her sleep, crying, and calling out a name in anguish.
He shook off the pinpricks of guilt that had ridden him since they escaped from Midrigar. He sympathized with her fury, her resistance, even her hatred. She had helped him when he needed it most, even if she’d done so under duress. Abduction was no way to pay back a life debt, but his need for her hadn’t ended with his escape from the Pit. He needed her even more now, and as long as he could keep her from escaping him or plunging a dagger in his back the moment his guard was down, he’d deal with her hostility.
At the moment, she sat slumped in the saddle, holding the reins as her mare kept pace beside his own horse. She looked as ragged and beaten as he felt. He didn’t trust her any more than she trusted him, but he admired her. She persevered; she planned, and she negotiated at every opportunity, even when they both knew the odds were overwhelmingly in his favor. She might be subdued, but she wasn’t yet conquered. What little he knew of her character, he suspected such a thing might well be impossible.
Darkness was slowly retreating from the steppe when they reached the knot of trees obscuring more of the burial mounds. They stopped long enough to water the horses and refill the single flask at a wet weather stream swollen with rain that flowed through the middle of the woodland. Azarion kept one hand on his horse’s reins and the other on the loaded crossbow he carried. So far, the only sounds to reach his ears were those of bird whistles and the rustling of small creatures waking up to forage for their daily meal.